


For You, Always

by WeCouldPretend



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, King Arthur
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Galahad is the best boyfriend, Galahad's a cinnamon roll, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Kinda, M/M, Magic, Mordred curses people, Mordred is Arthur's nephew and nothing more, Mordred's not a people person, Revenge, court life, it quickly gets turned down, karma is more like it, slight mentions of someone offering sex, so much love, sorcery, this is so fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 05:21:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12741834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeCouldPretend/pseuds/WeCouldPretend
Summary: Mordred gets Galahad up in the middle of the night to help with a bit of magic. Galahad obliges. Lots of fluff, bits of angst, a touch of magic and a heaping dollop of Galahad being a good boyfriend.





	For You, Always

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at one in the morning after feeling hella hurt over something. So it's probably way sappier than I intended. And like three times as dramatic. But I don't care. Wallow in my emotions with me and enjoy the drama.

It was two in the morning when Galahad’s door swung open. 

A slight figure stood in the doorway, outlined by the fire burning in the brasiers behind him in the hallway. Galahad blinked, trying to clear the effects of being abruptly awoken by the squeak of his door hinges from his mind as the figure walked in. 

“I know you’re awake now. Get up, we have something to attend to.” The figure spoke without preamble as the door creaked shut. Galahad groaned, knowing that voice. If he was being honest with himself, he’d known who it was the moment his door had begun to open. He knew this person by their footsteps, by the way they breathed, by the feel of their fingers on his own. The same fingers that were now tugging at his wrist.

“Can’t it wait ‘till morning, Mordred? Come to bed instead.” Galahad murmured, sliding his hand into the one that had been tugging on his wrist. 

“Not bloody likely. Put on some pants and get up.” Mordred snorted, dropping Galahad’s hand and turning away from the bed to fumble around for Galahad’s boots. The taller boy groaned and heaved himself out from under his sheets, obeying his instructions and finding his clothes from the day before neatly draped over his trunk. 

“So, what’s with the late night urgency?” Galahad asked, buckling on sword belt and retrieving Joyeuse from it’s stand. 

“I’m not supposed to go to the river alone at night. And I have need of the river, and thus have need of you.” Mordred explained, handing over the boots he’d located. 

“You always have need of me.” Galahad joked, smiling even though it was too dark to be seen by the boy in the shadows. 

“Aye, it seems I always will.” Mordred replied as he offered Galahad his hand. The golden haired boy took the hand he was granted and let the King’s nephew pull him to his feet. The double meaning in his words rang clear as a bell. Galahad kept the hand he’d taken and pressed a gentle kiss to Mordred’s knuckles. 

Mordred sighed long and loud, a gentle depression of his lungs that expressed his thanks to his lover without ever having said a word. Galahad knew that a half moment later, Mordred’s eyes would flick open and he’d be right back on track with whatever they’d been doing. The wrinkle between his eyes would smooth gradually with the exhale, until his face was once again in the relaxed pose that was rare to see outside their quarters. 

“Ready to go?” Mordred asked, making a feeble attempt to visually assess his lover’s readiness in the dark of his room. 

“For you, always.” Galahad murmured, letting Mordred lead him by the hand, out his door and into the hallway. The door was quickly closed, before it’s squeaking woke up the whole royal wing. They knew from experience that Galahad’s mother did not take kindly to being woken up in the dead of the night. 

Mordred let his fingers curl tightly around Galahad’s, grounding himself in his lover’s comfortable presence. He glanced over, watching the way that the low-burning braziers lit his hair into spun gold. It was a familiar sight, but one he never quite became accustomed to being around. Everything about Galahad was perfect in it’s own way. Not in the same sense that the rest of the court of camelot regarded him as perfect. No, he was perfect for the way his grey eyes lit with the same black fire as his father’s did when he went into a fight. The way he bit his lips when he read. The way he said his R’s and P’s in his mother’s gentle accent. Perfect in the way he hadn’t quite grown into the breadth of his shoulders or the length of his arms.

“Am I allowed to know what we’re doing now? Or are you just going to keep staring?” Galahad asked, voice still rough from the lingering effects of sleep. 

Mordred smiled, a vicious gash across his face, bone white teeth only barely visible in the low light. “Oh my dearest one, of course you do,” he responded, saccharine sweet as he continued, “there is a certain someone who decided to threaten me during court dinner this night. But as it turns out, blackmailing a prince doesn't work.”

“And blackmailing a sorcerer is even less effective.” Galahad smirked, his mouth moving to the same approximate expression as his lover. 

“Indeed. And so we are going to take care of the problem. Loud enough to get across the message not to try to bed under-age-courtiers again. I assume that you’re happy to help?” Mordred hummed, a spring suddenly present in his step. 

“For you, always.” Galahad held his tongue after those three words. He knew better than to say anything about the rage boiling in his heart for the treatment of his love. He knew that it was the price Mordred payed for being second in line to the throne, under his cousin and for being so close to his aunt and uncle. It was never an easy existence, being an adolescent living comfortably in the shadow of the King. Galahad himself had people attempting to coerce him into doing things, because his father was the King’s Champion. Gawain had offered to dismember that particular knight if he ever came within sword’s reach of Galahad again. So instead of continue to talk, like a fool would, Galahad merely rubbed his thumb across Mordred’s knuckles and lengthened his stride to keep up. 

Mordred remained silent as they slipped out of the castle, using a key to open a much unused door that let them out onto the moor. Mist hung dark and shimmering in the late summer night, evidence that it had rained earlier in the day. The moon hung clear in the sky, a mere sliver of silver against inky blackness. Mordred smiled and swept the hood up on his cloak. It was a good night for witchcraft. 

Galahad copied the movement, tugging his own hood up over his hair, and letting it linger far enough back so that he still had peripheral vision. His effort did him little good. The feeling of Mordred’s hand in his own and the flash of gold from the dragon on his cloak were the only hints that he hadn’t sunk into the shadows the way he had appeared to. It was an entirely unnatural sensation, to feel his companion beside him and yet barely be able to make out his shape in the gloom. 

A gentle tug on his hand pulled Galahad back to awareness. “Come along Dearest, your eyes have had time to adjust to the dark by now. We have places to be, and the moon waits for no being.” 

The words floated on the fog, trailing behind the young sorcerer as he led Galahad down the hill to the outer wall of the keep. Together they walked out of the keep’s gate and into the grassy floodplain between the high stone walls of their home and the stream that was slowly meandering away from it. Here, some part of Mordred’s words rang false. As they walked, time seemed to stand absolutely still. No breeze touched their faces. No night creature moved. No night watchmen stirred. Here, the only things Galahad could perceive that had a semblance of life were Mordred and his river. 

Mordred approached the bridge with care, aware that it's stone was sturdy, but slippery in the dew. Galahad followed him, as he did, to the center of the bridge. He copied Mordred’s movements, kneeling with his companion on the edge of the bridge, facing downstream. He watched, entranced by the sorcerer’s movements in the dark. 

Mordred pulled out a little deerskin bag, tied with a leather thong. Both of which had clearly been dipped in goose fat and alcohol, judging by the smell. He looked up as soon as he was certain that he liked the bag’s placement upon the stone. “I’m going to light this on fire, and then we’re going to watch it burn. Then I want you to kick it into the river. Sound acceptable?” 

The blond nodded solemnly, very ready for his partner to perform whatever ritual he needed to so that they could go back to bed. 

With a snap of his fingers, Mordred struck one of them to light. It was a quick spell that Galahad had seen millions of times, and it never failed to impress him. Mordred held his lit fingertip to the bottom of the deerskin bag and let the fire catch. 

The fire leaped off of Mordred’s finger with surprising vigor, immediately consuming the fumes of the alcohol and the first layer of fat. The little bag burst into flames within seconds. It burned bright enough for Mordred to see it reflected in the water below them. He smiled fondly at the water, admiring a job done well as Galahad’s hand found his again. 

He squeezed those fingers gently, ten minutes later when the fire had burned itself out. His partner understood the gesture and pulled them both to their feet before doing exactly what Mordred had asked. With one swift kick, the ashy remains soared into the river. Galahad watched the remnants fly into the water, quickly being washed downstream. A slight tug on his hand reminded him that they weren’t done here. Galahad exited the bridge at the request, not looking back until they both reached the Camelot side of the bank once again. 

Feet firmly planted on the ground, Mordred paused, closing his eyes and gathering himself. He dropped his hold on Galahad’s hand and used both of them in a swaying, shoving motion that would have looked absurd had the river not copied him. A huge wave welled up out of the stream bed, carried by far greater momentum than the river was capable of on it’s own. It crashed across the bridge, following the gesture of the young sorcerer and swept the whole surface clean. 

Galahad waited half a moment before speaking. A lull hung over the little levee. As if the air had stilled around them. He stood silent and waited until a breeze brushed across his face. Time seemed to begin again as he opened his mouth. “Is it complete?” 

A flash of teeth against the darkness gave him his answer. 

“We can go back to bed now?” Galahad asked, thinking wistfully of his warm room and furs.

“Yes, lead the way.” Mordred responded, shifting his weight onto one foot to lean into Galahad. The young Du Lac smiled and took a moment to press his forehead to Mordred’s. 

“For you, always.” Galahad promised, beginning their no-doubt silent trek back up to the castle. 

Twenty minutes later they both slipped back into Galahad’s chambers. They both knew that Mordred wouldn’t bother going anywhere else. Galahad watched his hands shake with exhaustion in the dim light as he unlaced his cloak. Galahad intervened with the boots and doublet, quickly shucking off the rest of the outerwear and boots and leaving them in a pile on the floor. He pulled back the covers and pushed Mordred under them.

Galahad extinguished the single candle they’d lit and joined his sorcerer under the blankets. Mordred immediately curled into Galahad’s space, burying his face in the crook of his neck. “Thank you, Galahad. I needed this tonight. I don’t think I could have gone without you even if I’d wanted to.” 

Galahad smiled and pressed a kiss to Mordred’s cheek. “For you, always.”


End file.
